The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E21

Episode Date: October 1, 2017

It's episode 21 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about vicious vacations and seniors sharing spine-tingling stories. "I Bet I Can Make You Smile"† written by Tobias Wade and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:03:30) "Never Trust the Online Reviews"¤ written by Daniel Joseph and performed by Dan Zappulla & Addison Peacock & Elie Hirschman & Jesse Cornett & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:16:25) "Can You Hear the Cicadas Sing?"† written by Otis Mari and performed by Erika Sanderson & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:34:25) "My Grandpa Has Demanded That I Be Cremated"‡ written by Harrison Prince and performed by Jeff Clement & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:56:10) "My Grandfather's World War Two Story"† written by Darius Pilgrim and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Kyle Akers & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 01:30:05) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about our story Submissions page.   Click here to learn more about the new horror anthology "Vices and Virtues"   Click here to learn more about the Deadly Manners podcast   Click here to learn more about Tobias Wade   Click here to learn more about Darius Pilgrim   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Can You Hear the Cicadas Sing?" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody Audio program ©2017 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This is a horror storytelling podcast. Our tales are dark and disturbing, intended to shake you up. Listen at your own risk. We are all around you. And tonight's there will be, brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us.

On this week's show, we have five tales about vicious things. vacations, and seniors sharing spine-tingling stories. I'm pleased to announce a new book coming out on October 1st. It's an anthology of horror stories edited by Ashley Franz Holzman, whose stories you've heard on the podcast, like his unforgettable tale, The Stump. The book is called Vices and Virtues, a horror anthology. And it features exclusive stories from many authors you've heard on this very show, names like C.K. Walker, Raphael Marmol, Manon Lyset, Rona Vassilar, L. Chan, Christopher Bloodworth, and many, many more.

Simply put, if you like No Sleep Stories, you really should pick up this book. Check the show notes for a link to where you can order it. Vices and virtues, sometimes it's hard to choose. And while we're speaking about No Sleep authors, I want to make everyone aware of the new submissions page on our website. If you're a writer who has a scary tale to share or know someone who does, you can go to the no sleeppodcast.com slash submissions to learn about our guidelines. We love nothing more than hearing from up-and-coming or seasoned horror writers who'd like to work with us. And finally, just a quick mention about a new podcast starting on Tuesday, October 3rd. It's called Deadly Manners, and it's a 10-episode dark comedy murder mystery set in the winter of

1954, a classic who-done-it with a comedic twist. And consider the cast, featuring Kristen Bell, Dennis O'Hare, Rupal, Anna Klompsky, and narrated by Lovar Burton. Oh, and I'm in it too. We'll feature the premiere episode on our feed on Tuesday, so you can jump right in and start sleuthing. So, with the theme this week being no-sleep authors, let's present five of them to you now, as we kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a man who tells us about the occasions when he attended the funerals of family members. But as explained by author Tobias Wade, there's a strange character who also attends the funerals and the man needs to find out why. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett and Erica Sanderson. So if you're like me, you'll agree

that a funeral is not the place to tell someone, I bet. I can make you smile. The first time I met him was at my grandfather's memorial. Dark round spectacles just covering his eyes, long black coat, steel gray hair halfway down his shoulders. A whole room of handkerchiefs and downcast faces, but he was the only one smiling. I was only eight at the time, but that seemed like a good enough reason to sit beside him. Did you know my peppy?

Better than anyone. He must have been almost 70, the same age my grandfather was. Were you his friend? Oh, his closest friend. I'm the one who killed him, you know. You can't get any closer than that. I tried to ask him more questions, but the service was starting, and my mother kept turning around to hush me.

Mom gave the eulogy, and that was the first time I'd ever seen her cry. I guess I must have started sniffling, too, because the man next to me put his hand on my knee and gave it a little squeeze. His fingers felt like he'd just come inside from a blizzard. By the end of the final sermon, they brought out some bagpipes to play Amazing Grace, and then I really did cry for real. I remember it being hard for me to understand why I'd never get to see Pappy again. Sure, he was dead, but that didn't mean I couldn't still visit and eat as barbecue sandwiches, did it?

Once I started crying, I didn't know how to make it stop. People must have been sympathetic, but I just remember how embarrassing it felt to have everyone staring at me. I was the first one out of the room, running all the way outside the church to the big oak tree in the yard. The man with the dark spectacles was the first to find me. Hey there, champ, I bet I can make you smile. I shook my head and pressed my face into the bark. Watch this. He spoke in a voice accustomed to being obeyed.

I looked up to see him whistling at a squirrel who sat in one of the lower branches. The squirrel ran down the trunk until it was a few feet above our heads, then jumped, without hesitation to land on his shoulder. How'd you do that? Well, I can do all sorts of things. He crouched down to my level so I could pet the squirrel. Why'd you kill him? He stood to lift the squirrel out of my reach. Because it made me happy.

Run along now. I'll see you soon. We can play another game then. When? When I kill your grandmother. Not long now. Long at all. Three weeks and she was gone.

My parents told me that she missed grandfather so much that she decided to follow him to heaven. I knew better. One night I couldn't sleep, I'd crept to the top of the stairs to listen to them talking about it in the kitchen. Grandmother's hands were peacefully folded over the knife in her heart when they found the body. The man was there at the next memorial, just like he'd promised. I was afraid of him now, sitting as far away as I could. I wanted to tell someone what he'd done. But somehow my eight-year-old brain thought that I would get in trouble. It was my fault she'd got murdered. I knew it was going to happen, and I didn't try to stop him.

He found me again while I was waiting for my parents to leave, out by the tree. This time, he'd gotten there first. I could feel his dark spectacles trained on me as I crossed the yard, but I couldn't stop myself. I wanted to know who was next. The first words out of my mouth were blunt. I hate you. Oh, that's all right. Most people hate things.

They don't understand. I want you to stop killing people. Well, I'm not going to do that. But here's what I can do. Bet I can make you smile. He sat down on the grass and began to concentrate. Maybe I should have run. But it wasn't a matter of fear for me.

It was simply a choice between interesting and boring, questions, and answers. I've watched the tree as the squirrel scampered down the trunk. The squirrel leapt straight onto his hand. Not just the squirrel either. Ants were swarming out of the ground to line up around his feet. Beetles and worms and unknowable monstrous squirming creatures thrashing their way through the ground to bow before him. Even a stray cat came sprinting across the yard. None of the animals, the least perturbed by the other's presence. They were all watching him expectantly, like a dog waiting for their treat.

Let us dance. And so they did. The squirrel hopped from one foot to the other. The cat stood on its hind legs, and all the insects began to spastically twirl upon the ground. Despite everything, I couldn't help but smile at the spectacle. I wasn't smiling the next time I saw him. At my mother's funeral, 31 years, and he hadn't aged a day. I could feel those dark spectacles on me the moment I entered the room,

like childhood's imaginary monster come to life before my very eyes. The same gray hair, the same black coat. the same subtle smirk creasing the edges of his face. I couldn't stand to sit in the same room as him. I felt hot and dizzy. I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. Only that I needed air. My feet traced the familiar steps to the tree without intervention from my scattered mind. My mother had been found by her neighbor the same way, a knife in her heart. wanted to hit him to wipe that smirk off his face whatever it took i was seething when he approached drawing close all my carefully prepared arguments and threats burned from i couldn't understand

how anyone could have the audacity to say come now it's not all bad i bet i can make you smile You did. Sometimes I wish I was. He sat down on the grass. I hesitated, not the answer I was expecting. But if I was dead, then who would have been there to kill your mother? I kicked him while he sat on the ground. As hard as I could, I jumped on him, grabbing a fistful of his long hair to fling him down into the ground.

Everyone else was still inside the church. No one but God was going to see what I did to him, and God would understand. He didn't make a move to rise or resist. He just spat enough blood out to mutter one sentence. Come to me. I kicked him again, and he went down hard. And again, I heard something break under his coat.

I would have kept going, but a piercing, pain in the back of my neck made me spin around. A crow was diving at me, pecking me. Its black eyes glinting with intelligence and purpose. Fight your own back! I batted the bird away from my face. Or are you too scared? Is that why you only kill old people who can't fight back? I can't kill you. I was on top of him again, pushing him back into the dirt. The crow wouldn't relent, but I could suffer through any cuts and scratches it gave me to get at him. He spoke again through broken teeth. But here's what I can do.

That I can make you smile. You know what? Fine. Me smile. And if you can't, then you're going to turn yourself into the police and tell them about every person you've killed. killed. And if I can, then you're going to help me with my next kill. That took me a second to process. Of course I wouldn't do it. Of course I wouldn't smile either. My face was harder than stone. I nodded. I let him stand to dust off his jacket,

which he did quite easily as though he had suffered no hurt from my assault. I can't kill you because you're not ready yet. Your grandparents were. Your mother was, although she never told you. All I do is help them along their journey. You're insane, smiling. He forcefully popped his jaw back into place with a slight groat. I've got proof.

It's all around you. They never forget me after I've helped them. I looked around where he gestured. The tree. The squirrel crouching to spring at me. The thousands of insects even now gathering at his feet. The crow watching from the branches. Its head cocked to the side.

The keen intelligence in its... Mom? The crow hopped down from the tree to land on my shoulder, brushing its head against my cheek. I swallowed hard. I felt more like crying than smiling, but I guess I was doing both, so he still won the bet. Death is an evil thing only when seen in isolation, but death never exists in isolation. It's just an abstract thought to imagine it that way. A single thread once woven may seem lost, but only until you see. step back and see the whole tapestry it helped create. Come with me now, and I'll show you how to weave. And as sure as any bird or beast who answered his call. These days, finding a job is a difficult

task, but imagine trying to find a job when you've just been released from prison. As we learn from author Daniel Joseph, one man is thankful to get a job at a travel call center. but he soon realizes that the company isn't only about vacations. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Addison Peacock, Ellie Hirschman, Jesse Cornett, and Nicole Goodnight. So if you're booking a vacation, do a lot of research and remember, never trust the online reviews. They say it's hard to restart your life after prison. I'll tell you it's damn near impossible. I used to be a business analyst, cranking out spreadsheets and presentations in a cubicle farm.

Good money, decent hours. Then, one night, it happened. We were out at a bar and this guy kept talking to my girlfriend. He was being a creep and just wouldn't leave her alone. I told him to fuck off. He spit in my face. I snapped. I cracked him with a beautiful shot halfway up his jawline.

I turned around to see my friend's reactions, and when I looked back, the creep was bleeding out onto the floor. It was a freak accident. He hit his head on a sharp corner on the way down, and... Well, that was that. Eight months and tens of thousands of dollars later, I was headed to lock up for manslaughter. me, the preppy finance major from a state school, going off to a medium security prison.

I won't dwell on my time there, just trust me when I say, you never want to be put in a box like that. I got released six years later, and it felt like I had been in a time capsule. Everyone else had moved ahead while I was stuck washing prison jumpsuits and eating rubberized food. The girlfriend that I had literally killed for was a fat married mother of two now. My friends were on track for management positions at consulting firms. My own family shunned me after the damage I had done to our good name and reputation.

So I ended up desperate and almost alone in Jacksonville. I had one contact left from school, Sean, who let me stay in his garage. until I could get back on my feet. Well, that was the plan, at least. Then his wife searched my name online and found out that I was a murderer. So I ended up desperate and very alone in Jacksonville.

After weeks of hunting for jobs on the public library computers, I finally heard back for an opening. Shit hours and medium wage for a sketchy call center, but I needed the money. The hiring manager, Bill, sent me some forms to fill out. I swallowed the lump in my throat and checked the felony box on the first form and added my now boilerplate explanation of how I killed a guy by accident. I pressed send.

I wasn't optimistic. I'd been down this road before. Everything was great until the whole felony thing. Turns out, most hiring managers didn't want to call it. me back after that. I guess I get it. I wouldn't have wanted to share an office with a dirty felon back when my life was happy and perfect either. But Bill emailed me right back, saying that I was hired. I couldn't believe it, so I point blank asked him if he had read all of my materials, and he assured me that he had. He said something corny about how he was interested in the man that I was

now, not six years ago. I started the next day. After a marathon bus ride and a hike across the city, I made it to the office. In truth, it was a rented-out floor in a nearly condemned building tucked into a rusting old industrial park. The setting seemed appropriate. Bill met me at the door. He was a fat guy balding with yellowed teeth that drew attention away from the busting seams in his shirt. He was the guy who showed up to 40 and up-speed dating events, wearing a cheap suit and borrowed cologne. Tim! His greasy hand clasped mine. Let me give you the grand tour.

The carpeted hall opened up to a hive of dated computer screens. Sad people slumped in front of them, like well-behaved zombies and headsets. I figured that's how I'd look in a few days here, too. This is where the magic happens. We contract with travel websites and resorts primarily. You'll be working on customer service, helping folks with bookings and their arrangements while their guests at the resort. We do some new work with travel review sites too,

but you'll learn about that later. He stopped and leered at me. Do you believe in the Bible, Tim? I didn't know how the hell to answer that, so I didn't. He cackled and thrust a heavy binder into a, my arms. This is your Bible, Timmo. Transfer numbers, scripts for every possible situation.

If this thing knew how to talk, it would take your job in an instant, okay? I nodded. This couldn't be too hard. Bill led me over to a scrawny, beady-eye guy and a red and black bowling shirt. This is Leon, the shift lead. He'll be monitoring your calls to make sure you're doing everything by the book. Leon bared his teeth and what I think. was supposed to be a smile.

Then Bill took me into his office to sign some paperwork. By the way, if for whatever reason a customer calls and says there's an emergency or they want to talk to the police, you patch the call into my office, okay? The transfer lines on the first page of the Bible. Sure. Okay, great, champ. Oh, one more thing. Since we're adding new clients every day, we really need to ensure their privacy and security.

So sign this non-disclosure agreement. I leaped through the many pages. It seemed severely restrictive. Judging from one of the pre-law courses I took in college, this thing wasn't legal and wouldn't hold up in court. Uh, and if I don't feel comfortable signing it? Bill chuckled. Ha, ha, ha, oh, Tim, you young guys are great jokers.

You could do that. and then I would fire you. He leaned over the desk, and his voice lowered. Good luck finding another job as a felon, when your one work reference tells them what a horrible, insubordinate employee you were. Jesus Christ. All right, man, all right. Here, I signed the damn thing.

Bill patted me on the shoulder with the heavy paw. Fantastic. Now go to your desk. study the Bible, and Leon will get you up and running on the system. Welcome aboard. The days flew by. Overtime shifts, hours of mind-numbing calls about a stupid bed being a queen when the customer specifically requested a king,

or the balcony being too small, or the room not looking exactly like the pictures online. I read the shitty scripts, the customers cussed me out, and they hung up. I quickly learned that the joke was on them. Our online reviews stayed at 4.8 stars. It didn't matter what your customers thought if you controlled the rating systems. Leon snickered and told me that the resorts all had arrangements with the rating companies to make sure their reputation stayed golden. We copied this practice and people kept on booking.

Strangely, I didn't get to know my coworkers. Bill kept us separated. Small talk was forbidden, and there were no breaks. And of course, nobody stayed around after a 12-hour shift to shoot the shit. I remember when I handled my first emergency call. It was from a scared woman on an excursion. Let me explain. Basically, companies offered day trips like boat rides or four-wheeling trips in the desert to customers staying at resorts. The woman calling me was on a a four-hour catamaran trip off the coast of her resort. He's robbing us. They beat my husband and took him away. Call the police. A shiver ran down my spine and my fingers fumbled for the transfer page. Hang on, man.

I'll connect you to the manager. I patched the call to bill, flagging it as an emergency. I watched him take it through his window and hang up a few seconds later. I sat there wondering what had happened. I couldn't take not knowing. I walked over and knocked on his door. What? Uh, that lady, did you help her?

Bill looked confused. Huh? The woman who just called. Ah, she was drunk out of her mind. Ignore it. Uh, she didn't sound drunk. Listen, kid, I've worked with that company for years. They're good guys. Then he remembered he was the boss. Are you on a break?

Get back to your desk. I scurried out of there, but that call stuck with me. I was exhausted after my shift, but I couldn't sleep. I searched for the problem company online. Eduardo's excellent tours and excursions and laughed. Of course they had a perfect five-star rating. I gave up for the night and passed out, waking up to my shrill alarm clock just a few hours later.

The calls were normal for a while after that, but my suspicion grew with each day. Something wasn't sitting right about the whole thing. Finally, on a whim, I went out and bought a phone tap. When it was my day to clean Bill's nasty office, oh, yes, we had to clean his office out every day as part of our job. I brought the tap with me. My hands shook. as I struggled to hook it up to his phone.

I was finishing the job when Leon barged in. My breath caught in my throat. He leered at me, then snarled that my ship was starting in five minutes, and to hurry up. I finished up and left, my heart hammering against my ribs. I waited a few days to make sure Leon didn't suspect anything,

and Bill didn't notice the tap. After four days, I figured it was safe, so I linked it to my headset. I got a chance to test it a week later. A man called me frantically babbling. Excursion. Eduardo's excursion. Slow down, sir.

What do you mean? They said she was too drunk and needed medical care below deck, but we don't drink. They're lying and I don't know what they're doing down there. Okay, hang on, sir. I transferred the call to Bill and waited, holding my breath until it hurt. A moment later, their conversation entered my ear. The tap was working, thank God. The man repeated his story, and Bill told him the local police would be dispatched immediately.

Then he hung up and took a smoke break. I watched him leave. No one ever called the police. I felt sick. I had confirmed it. This company was enabling God knows what to happen to innocent tourists. I was getting paid minimum wage to lie and cover up the tracks. But I thought back to my first conversation with Bill and knew he was right.

He'd fuck me over and leave me unemployed and homeless. I decided that all I could do for now was to collect more information and find out what was going on. I had been dragging ass at work before then. Obviously, no one was terribly motivated. in that environment. But now I had a purpose. I doubled my customer engagement speed so that I could get back to spying on Bill more often. Listening in was like torture. Most of his calls during the workday were to phone sex lines, and this dude was into some far-out shit. Finally, one Friday, I struck Gold. I caught him on a call to the owner of Eduardo's.

Look, shithead, we got a problem. Do the sexual shit on your own time. Stick to the original plan. Rough them up a bit. Rob them and go on your way. My friend, it was a mistake. One guy was drunk and tried to go too far. We stopped him and made sure he wouldn't do it again. I don't want to know. Just don't let it happen again. End up my cut to 10%. I'm catching a lot of shit for you up here. Fuck off, man. The most I can do is for. Fine, fine. Look, I got to run. We'll talk later. Eduardo hung up. Before I could do the same, I heard something else.

Tim, my office. It was Bill on his phone. I gasped and looked up to see Bill staring right through me. My heart raced as I took off the headset and staggered towards his office. He sat me down and glared silently for a minute. You think a guy in my kind of business is stupid? You think I'd talk that openly about that shit if I didn't pay attention to exactly who was listening in?

I shook my head. Good college boy. Now you're using that big brain of yours. He sat on the edge of his desk looming over me. I can tell you're going to be a problem, so here's a proposition. Keep working here and doing the right thing, and I'll give you a 2% kickback every time we contract a successful robbery or other item. Look, you eavesdropped. We don't tolerate sexual activities, just robbery, no lasting damage.

Well, some of our newer companies like murder, but they're a lot rarer. You have to coordinate with the black market for organs, fake the alcohol poisoning. It's a mess. Anyways, that's the smart play. He leaned further, his moist belly resting uncomfortably on my knee. Then there's the alternative. I plant hard drugs in your locker and you go back to jail. I stared dumbly at him.

Oh, yes. Who do you think they'd believe? A disgraced former murderer or old Bill, the pillar of the community, giving a second chance to ex-cons lost in the sixth. I shuddered at the thought, but we both knew I was still trapped. Hadda boy. Back to work, then. Keep an eye on your paychecks and you'll see the extra money when good things happen.

As I shuffled numbly back to my desk, the phone rang. Hello, how may I help you, sir, ma'am? Hi, I booked a kingbed, but the resort says they have my name for a twin. No problem, ma'am. Let me send an update over, and you should be all set. I tapped some keys and submitted the form. Okay, that should be resolved. Anything else?

No. Well, actually, while I have you on the phone, my husband and I are torn between excursions. Pal Eduardo's. They have great reviews online. My stomach felt queasy as I sensed Bill's leering eyes on me. My voice was wooden. Ed's is great. Five stars for a reason. You'll have a blast.

Oh, great. I'll look at the house. Thanks for your help. I hung up the phone. As you know, we enjoy people who tell scary stories, especially those stories handed down from family members who experience something real and dark in their life. In this tale from author Otis Mari, we hear a grandmother sharing a bedtime. story with her granddaughter. The events which happened to the grandmother would keep anyone up at night. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and Nicole Goodnight. So think carefully if someone asks you, can you hear the sacadas sing?

I demanded to hear the story time and time again. It wasn't that she was great at telling it, but how frightened she was when she did. My grandmother had these mammoth eyes like a Margaret Keane painting. The skin around them was always trying to keep up, and as the telling began, they would blossom in the glow of my snoopy nightlight. Her memories were clear, sparkling. She could tell you about the summer shoes on her feet and navy canvas, and the baggy short cotton dress her mother bought her on the last day of second grade.

The details were there, so if you wanted to ask questions, you could. You didn't want to break her stride, but sometimes you'd have to be. to know more about the man's face. What exactly did he look like? Were there scars or marks you could remember? What do you mean a long nose? How long? Like Uncle Hirsch? I just can't quite picture it. Tell me more. I'd snuggle myself comfortable between the sheets and gather my arms under the pillow, lay there on my side as she took a seat on the edge of the mattress. She'd put a cold palm on my temple and rake her fingers through my hair. I'd breathe in

the bar soap from my bedtime soak in the tub. Safe and doted after? Middle class suburbia where stories are just stories and can't hurt you. Even if they're real. So give it your best shot, Bob. You remember what I said.

If you tell your mother that I told you this story again, it will be the last time I tell it. Okay? She doesn't like it and doesn't want you hearing it. So nod your head if you understand. All right then. You remember the picture of the house in Raleigh,

the little one with the willow tree out front? That's the one. That's where I spent my childhood. My entire childhood, where I was born. The neighborhood isn't the same now. It was all residential back then. It means it was all houses. And these were houses that were built very alike,

a nice neighborhood. Nothing fancy, but there wasn't much crime, and everything was kept clean, and the roads were paved, and the people were usually civil. I could have had it much worse. The three of us had a home with a second story, and we had our dog, Puddles,

who I loved so much. Dad had a good job. Mom was always reading and listening to the radio, cooking. Anyway, in between these lines of houses where the backyards faced each other were alleyways behind wooden fencing. Fencing wasn't always the same height

and was broken down in some places, but the alley behind our house wasn't a bad place to walk. There were branches hanging over from the neighbor's yards in many spots, like a canopy. Yes, like an umbrella from the sun. I would walk through the grassy alley every day to go to school so long as it wasn't muddy. Puddles and I would.

race each other down the length of it and play fetch with tennis balls. I spent a lot of time in there. I know it might sound a little boring to you with all you kids have now, but the alley was a little like going out in nature for me. Even if it was just past my backyard, I used to play there like it was a jungle. All the kids needed a little more imagination in those days if they wanted to enjoy their summer. You might think about going outside a bit more. often yourself. Okay, okay. So, one day, about a week after school is out, I walk out the back door. I called to my mother that I was going out to explore. She said to come back in time for lunch. I said I would. I left puddles in the yard as I passed through the gate into the alley,

feeling like it was too hot outside to keep up with them. The sacadas was singing everywhere. It's a racket that just becomes part of the outdoors. Not bad or good, but they were very loud. I remember the rise and fall of their calls clearly, seeing their empty skins clung randomly to hop bark. And I started towards a spot I favored, about six houses down. There's a giant root from a hickory tree on the other side of the fence that's broken through the soil.

It was like a little bench made just for me. covered and dropped nuts, shaded by leafy branches. I pushed through the little swarms of gnats and grasshoppers and trek to the spot. I swept off the nuts. Some just husks hollowed out by squirrels and took my seat. My mother would hate to see dirt on the back of my dress, but that's what the dress was for, playing in the summer. So I roosted there on the dirty roof like kids in the summer is supposed to do. It just means sitting, like a rooster. Glad you think it's funny.

So, I was sitting there like a rooster on my little root bench, just pretending I was in another world, another time maybe. And out of nowhere, a spider drops from my hair to the front of my cotton dress. I see it whirr past my eye, scared the daylights out of me. I pitched a fit and thrashed around, throwing my hair everywhere, hollering like it's an apocalypse. It took a minute for me to settle down, but eventually I did. I reclaimed my proper place there on the route and decided not to be scared away, that it shouldn't ruin my day.

I sank again into the spot and reclined my back. After a few more minutes, I even shut my eyes, daydreaming like all kids do. Almost no time had passed. I wasn't actually dreaming, just starting to think some lovely thoughts. With my face pointing to the sky, I broke open my eyes. It was a man perched in the branches, leaning on one arm in a dirty linen suit. He had a grin on his face that people nowadays would call disturbed. That's how I would call it too now that I'm old.

He looked disturbed. Hell, now I was disturbed. He was just lounging in the tree. There in the boughs that hang over the alley grinning like a fool. A grown man. It was strange and awful and just what was he doing there? He wasn't a neighbor. We knew our neighbors. Everybody knew everybody. I held my spot on the route, and not because I was determined to stay. My limbs were like, sims. meant. That's what it's like when you're scared, you know. Everything, including your feet, weighs so much more. I was staring into this man's eyes and I couldn't turn away. If your brain register something as incorrect, as unexplainable, it's difficult not to. So you can imagine how entranced I was to see a spider, a little larger than the last one twisting in between the man's finger and thumb. He had it pinched by a few legs and it struggled to free itself. I remember the legs like black threads squirming over this man's fingernails. I was nauseous.

I was forced to shut my eyes as my mouth filled with saliva. I was going to be sick. I took deep breaths. I gulped at the air to calm my stomach. A cicada broke in, a song from nearby, the fresh voice in the million-deep chorus. I was sweating under my bangs and shaking like a little chihuahua. I remember expecting that spider to drop right into my mouth and down my throat at any moment. When I felt the wave of sickness calm, I decided to open my eyes, get on up and high-tail it out of there. When I opened those eyes, though, they were still on the man in the tree. And he had his mouth open.

And that's exactly where the cicada's call was coming from. I couldn't tell you how he was doing it. If it was a party trick, it was one of the best I'd ever seen. The ticking screech blended in with every other song in the air. It slid up and then down at just the right places. The chirps were just the sing. Tinny but loud like aluminum. He was staring into my eyes, expression blank, emitting the cicada's call like it was the dull end of her conversation.

I suddenly found my legs and broke into a desperate run through the grass alley. The song continued, surrounded me like the calls of a cicada do. I barreled through the gate into the backyard, hysterical. When I reached the house, my mother was already at the door, worried sick at the side of me. I lunged into her and held on tight. My parents were angry at whoever would do this, but they didn't know what to do. My dad searched the alley, spoke to a few neighbors, but he didn't feel like it was a police matter. Of course, I felt I needed the man found and returned to whatever asylum, prison rail car or hole he'd climbed out of him, put back where he belonged.

But it was out of my hands. I could only throw fits and weep until my mother sent me to my room. I couldn't even have the three tumblers of gin and soda like everyone else in the house. I had to deal with it. I was in bed that night trying to sleep. It was late, my folks long passed out downstairs. They weren't exactly drinkers, and my guess now would be that my mother played bartender. She always overdid it.

Not surprising that they wouldn't wake to the. the sound of the dog barking. And he did, over and over. Puddles always slept in the backyard unless it was too cold outside. That night was no different, yet my gut said it wasn't so. I was still vibrating head to toe, my stomach churning. My parents were unconscious from the booze, snuggled in bed downstairs, and I might as well have been alone. My instincts told me the Puddles was going to walk into my bedroom for in a few seconds. The barking would continue. I would go to the window and see the man in the filthy linen suit,

standing in the middle of the backyard, barking just like puddles. He'd have that same empty stare on his face, looking right into me, knowing I'd eventually approached the glass. I waited for the dog to enter the room. I waited for a long time. that didn't happen. So I gathered up my courage, shimmied my way out of bed, and over to the window-sill. There was puddles, barking up at my bedroom window, once every few seconds.

He was staring right up at me. I wanted to quiet him, but was afraid to yell down. And why was he barking up my window? He would bark sometimes in the night at raccoons, at other dogs howling from down the the street, but never up my window. I didn't need another mystery. I was already close to wedding myself. So what did I do? Again, I ran. Out of my bedroom and down the stairs two at a time, into my parents' bedroom and under their covers. As suspected, they were passed out cold. I checked their pulses, watched their chests to make certain they hadn't been murdered in the

Their breathing was slow, but it existed, and it stunk of gin. My parents were alive, but for the next few hours, they were as good to me as dead. The dog barked for hours. I shuddered and clutched my father's limp bicep until I fell asleep. Pottles kept at it for three more nights. My parents would yell from their window, pleading for the dog to settle down, but it just wouldn't cease. So they let him take his winter's sleeping spot in the laundry room. I'd clamped my palms over my ears for the duration of each of those nights, desperate for an

answer to all this. Even when sleep came, it was littered with images of the man in the dirty suit. His long nose, dark and oily hair, untrimmed fingernails on the tips of large skinny hands. hands, and all the while, whether in dreams or reality, the cicadas would sing. With the dog locked away, I began to sleep. The nightmares continued, but I was getting a decent semblance of rest. It means I was sleeping, but I still felt tired inside. In my head, I was exhausted, so I mostly stayed inside for a couple of weeks. And you bet your butt I didn't go anywhere near. that alley in my favorite little root bench. I took an occasional trip to the library and read for hours in the den, played cards with my mother. Not a great start to my summer. Now, one morning,

my father makes a discovery while mowing the backyard. I remember him pointing up at my window while I rearranged a drawer of frilled clothing in my room. My mother stood beside him, winting through the sun in my direction. I came to the backyard for the first time in two weeks, feeling that familiar tremble snake up my torso and through my fingers. My father's face said enough. He was panicked. And he'd been through a lot in his life.

Not many things panicked him. I followed his stare up to my window and then directly to the left, right where there was a collection of friends. Prince. Clear as that summer day. Hand prints lined up on the white siding, foot scuff several feet below, just inches from my window. Someone had clung there to the side of the house, right by my bedroom. I didn't say a word. Nobody did. My mother certainly didn't want me stirred up any more than I was, but then she was stirred up herself. She took me back inside while my father phoned the police. I took the space between my parents when it was bedtime, and nobody argued. Months

would pass before they did. Before school started that year, my mother wanted me to return to the alley, not to explore, but to see that it wasn't the scary place that I'd made it into, that that man her turned it into. So she took me by the hand and guided me through the backyard, past the gate, and into the long, grassy strip. My nausea was threatening me from a distance, but I took each step with a respectable purpose. I was hand in hand with my mother, and it was going to be all right. We reached my root bench, and it's just the same. Covered in hickory nuts and sprouting weeds in places, I look up into the branches that had haunted me. Nothing but green leaves and gnarled branches going 30 feet high.

I noticed that a few branches even land on trees in different yards, some on the other side of the alley. We continue on the path until it's ending, where a strip of grassy land leads to the street. On the grass, over on the left-hand side of the alley, there's an object crumpled and waiting to be noticed. I'd tried my hardest to pretend it wasn't what it was, resting there limply like scattered trash. My mother's grip strengthened over my hand.

I noticed she didn't want to look at it either. My dress. The one I'd worn that day. The piece that was for the summer, for playtime. The very one I'd stuffed in the back of my bedroom dresser, refusing to be reminded of that. morning ever again. The beige cotton was filthy, wrinkled, and wayward lines. My breath halted and my hand was pulled towards the lip of the alley. My mother's eyes wouldn't hold on to the dress. Her footsteps were doubling in speed. She wanted away from there, quickly. While being dragged

away, my nerves radiating from my skin, I took one last look up into the trees. My eye landed on something. A large bag of some sort. It's hanging up in the branches and several twisted shreds. Only it's not flapping like the leaves around it. It's heavier. I looked closer, tried to blink in some explanation. It was so high up there.

The kind of thing nobody would pay any attention. The bowels were too hard to reach. If it was a garbage bag would stay until God took it down. Now, are you listening? There was a haze around it. A light black haze. It was flies. I could make out the black flecks of them swirling.

I pointed it out to my mother. Through clenched teeth and tears threatening to well in her vision, she said it was a torn blanket. maybe a ripped piece of canless cart. She didn't see the flies. But she reasoned that if there were flies, it was probably very dirty. All I could do was say, all right, and take my step from the alley in my mother's shadow,

leave whatever was left of that man behind. I never saw him again, but I very well could have heard him. The cicadas sang well into my time in third grade. That year also happened to be the emerging of the 17-year locusts, which aren't locusts, but cicadas too, of course. They stay underground, deeper than a grave all that time before they come out, burst from their skin and take flight with a fresh set of wings. I think that's the part that your mother hated the most. I couldn't give her the answer she wanted. Only the clues that made your head spin.

And the noise from outside only made it worse. Those cicadas would call from the window all summer, and you can't just stop them. All night through, they'll sing. I know. So just ignore them. Let it fade into the background. It eventually will.

Now, I think we've had enough for one night. It means it's time for you to close your eyes. And so, another episode has drawn to a close, and our nightmares dissolve into the ether. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program,

25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 19. 99. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our dark tales will enfel up you in a nightmarish swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of creating. of Reason Media, Inc.